


Surely Someday

by 15Strawberries



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Female Pronouns for Pidge | Katie Holt, Gen, college/jazz band au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-07
Updated: 2017-01-07
Packaged: 2018-09-15 09:14:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9228365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/15Strawberries/pseuds/15Strawberries
Summary: Lance and Hunk have a tradition. Every day after class, they find an empty classroom to jam in, to unwind from the stress of the day.It grows from there.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [buttered_onions](https://archiveofourown.org/users/buttered_onions/gifts).



> Modern college/ jazz band AU. Title and lyrics at the end are from the song [Because](https://youtu.be/bV0D38nFUhU) by Yoko Kanno.

The legendary jazz quintet, Voltron, of Altea University, started out as just Hunk and Lance jamming out in an empty music room. They would get back from their afternoon classes, grab Lance's trumpet and Hunk's bass from the orchestra room lockers, then find a good space and chill for an hour or so, unwinding from the stress of the day. They never set out to play anything specific— Lance liked to improvise and Hunk was good at riffing off his notes, but by the time Pidge found them, they'd practiced enough songs for a pretty decent length set.

Pidge— better known as Katie Holt to everyone but Hunk and Lance— was one of those child musical genius prodigy types, who came to the university for classes and was on track to graduate early with a degree in music composition. She took lessons for five different instruments (only piano was required for her degree, the rest were just for fun) and had apparently never heard of improv jazz before in her life. She had burst into their practice room and demanded to know what exactly they were doing, that chord would work much better if you raised the bass line by a half step, and could they please decide whether they were playing in four/four time or not? Her brother had dragged her out, apologizing profusely, as Katie shouted back questions, wanting to know if they actually knew how to play their instruments because that would explain a lot, really.

Needless to say, they kept her.

It was just the three of them for the first few weeks. And that was good! Pidge kept bringing different instruments to their jam sessions and had a knack for harmonizing, and kept bringing new music for them to play, either her favorite songs arranged for trumpet, bass, and clarinet, or pieces that she'd written for her music composition class with Professor Coran. They even performed during the Homecoming concert as 'the Voltron Jazz trio.'

"Which is why," Lance argued, as Hunk stapled another 'looking for player' notice on the student board, "We don't need another player. Jazz trios are a thing, dude."

"Jazz quartets are also a thing," Hunk gave him an amused look, "It'll be nice to have another person to play with. Besides, we're getting to the point where we could really use a decent drummer."

"Oh no. The legendary Voltron jazz trio does not need a drummer."

"Do you want to give Pidge an excuse to bring her metronome again?"

Lance shuddered. That practice had been a nightmare and didn't bear remembering.

"Exactly," Hunk said grimly. "The only way we're going to keep her from bringing that monstrosity again is if we put someone on drums." He stapled the next flier to the cafeteria message board with unnecessary force, muttering to himself, "Bringing a metronome to jazz practice, honestly . . . ."

Lance patted his shoulder in silent, sympathetic commiseration.

In the end, only one person got in touch with them. Hunk refused to tell Lance who it was, and it wasn't until Lance saw a familiar mullet sitting at a table at the student café, waiting to meet them, that he understood why.

"You've got to be kidding me!" Lance hissed, clutching at Hunk's arm.

"Nope."

"Keith? Really? _Keith_?!"

"He's the only one that responded and he's _good_ , Lance, don't you dare ruin this because of that one thing when you were a freshman."

"It was marching band! Do you know how cool I would've been if I'd gotten into marching band?"

Pidge rolled her eyes at their whispered argument, pulling the café door open, "Hey," she said, walking up to Keith, "Are you here for us?"

Keith blinked at her, "I think so. Are you guys the—" He consulted one of Hunk's fliers, now wrinkled almost beyond recognition, "Voltron jazz ensemble?"

"That's us," Hunk said agreeably, pulling up a chair.

Lance flung himself into the chair opposite Keith, who eyed him uncertainly. "So, Keith," Lance drawled, "Since when were you interested in jazz?"

"I'm not, really," Keith shrugged, "But I need another extracurricular if I'm going to keep my scholarship next semester and the rock band I was going to join fell through.

"Lucky for us then," Hunk noted, ignoring the strangled sound Lance was making, "You said you play drums, right?"

"For the past ten years."

"Cool. I play bass, Pidge here plays either clarinet or saxophone depending, and you know that Lance plays trumpet."

“Ummm . . . .”

Lance could actually see the moment where Keith failed to remember how he had ruined Lance's life.

No. No nononono no no nope, Lance refused to play with a guy who didn't even have the decency to remember his part in one of the more humiliating moments in Lance's life. Keith wasn't getting into Voltron. Period.

But Hunk might actually kill him if he just stood up and walked away, so Lance needed to figure out a way to dispose of Keith subtly . . . .

His eyes lit on Pidge.

_Perfect._

"You the only person who replied to the flier," Hunk was saying.

"But we have a minor in our group," Lance interrupted, ignoring the strange looks all three were giving him, "So Pidge gets a final say in who joins."

_There_ , Lance thought smugly. Keith looked nervous as Pidge inspected him over the top of her glasses. Hunk couldn't even give him a hard time about it, they'd already agreed that they would defer to Pidge's judgement since she was the closest thing they had to a conductor. And Pidge had ridiculously high standards when it came to the people she played with so there was no way she'd ever, ever— 

"Keith can stay." Pidge said.

"Oh, cool," Hunk said, as Lance gaped, "Keith you heard her, you're in."

"Why?!" Lance exclaimed, staring at Pidge in betrayal.

Pidge pushed up her glasses, "He can play the percussion piece I composed."

Hunk and Lance paused.

"The one you brought in last week?" Hunk ventured.

"The one you wrote specifically to be physically impossible to play?" Lance yelped.

They both turned to Keith, who shrugged. "It was pretty challenging." He admitted.

Hunk and Lance exchanged long, speaking looks.

"Fine," Lance sighed, at the end of their silent conversation, "Keith," He paused, then said begrudgingly, "Welcome to Voltron."

Keith grinned.

"Do you have some time right now?" Hunk asked, as Pidge offered Keith a high five, "We're going to find a practice room to jam in. You can come and get a feel for how we play together."

"Yeah, sounds good." Keith nodded, still smiling faintly, and stood up.

"You're in charge of whatever sticks or tambourines or whatever you need to play." Lance told him, "Don't expect us to help you lug around your equipment. It's every man for himself."

Pidge cleared her throat pointedly.

"Every person for themselves." Lance amended.

"I . . . wasn't expecting you to?" Keith was frowning again, confused.

"Ignore him Keith, he's just mad that you don't remember him." Hunk said, holding the door open for everyone to walk outside.

"Oh," Keith gave Lance another confused look, "Sorry?"

Lance seethed.

Ten minutes later, walking through the halls toward the practice room, Keith stopped dead, "Wait, Lance, weren't you the guy who sent like five people to the hospital during marching band auditions?"

"Minor injuries, only three people, and it was your fault!"

" _That's_ why you've been giving me a hard time? How was it my fault that you tripped over your own feet?!"

_"I was distracted by your mullet!"_

* * *

Practices got a lot more . . . intense, after Keith joined—

("Keith, can you at least _try_ to stay on the beat?"

"It's called syncopation, Lance, I know you know what that is.")

—But even Lance could admit that they were better with him than without.

Lance and Hunk finally got the paperwork together to get their little band registered as an official club so Keith could list it on his transcript. They played at the November Thanksgiving concert, the Christmas concert, the faculty holiday party . . . . Miss Allura, who planned college events on top of being Pidge's piano teacher, booked them for like three different alumni parties, telling them that since they were playing anyway, they might as well get paid for it. Things settled into a new kind of normal.

Until one day in early spring when Keith pulled Lance aside, and told him that his friend was joining their next practice. "So try not to be as much of an asshole as you usually are." He said, voice tight.

Lance bristled, "Excuse you, I am not—"

"You are," Keith interrupted, "And I'm warning you now, if you rag on him the way the way you do me, I'm going to melt down your trumpet and turn it into an asshole of the year trophy."

Lance gasped, clutching his trumpet protectively to his chest as Keith turned on his heel and left.

He spent the rest of the night complaining to Hunk. How dare Keith threaten his trumpet! Would Keith deny the world the sweet music Lance made, over perfectly valid criticisms of his hair, and fashion sense, and ability to stay on beat?

Then Keith's friend stepped into the music room with a shock of white hair and tired eyes, the lower half of his right sleeve hanging empty, and yeah, Lance could see how even the good-natured teasing he indulged in might be out of place here.

Takashi Shirogane. Piano virtuoso and Altea University alumnus extraordinaire. The gift shop still sold recordings of his Carnegie Hall piano concert.

While Lance was standing there tongue tied, Hunk set his bass on its stand and walked over, left hand extended, "You must be the friend Keith was telling us about." He grinned, "I'm Hunk."

"Takashi Shirogane. Call me Shiro, please." Shiro shook his hand with a warm flicker of a smile.

"Good to meet you," Hunk said easily, "The tiny one with three different instruments is Pidge—“

Pidge waved from where she was putting together her clarinet.

“—and the guy emptying his spit valve on the carpet like a heathen is my friend Lance. He's the one that got this whole crazy thing started."

"Glad you could join us," Lance said, trying for nonchalant because _holy shit, was Takashi Shirogane really going to play with them??_ "So do you wanna practice with us or . . . ?" Wait, missing arm, _shit_.

Hovering at his friend's elbow, Keith's expression went from resting bitch-face to murderous.

The quirk in Shiro's smile was the only indication that he'd noticed Lance's faux pas. "Nah. I don't want to mess you up. Keith tells me you do a lot of improv."

"Improv's not hard," Lance assured him, "Lots of people think that it is, but really, just pick a chord and a key and go from there. You could probably do it with one hand tied behind—" God _dammit_ , if Keith wanted to kick his ass later, Lance was going to _let_ him.

After a long pause where Lance tried to ascend to the astral plane and Keith tried to kill Lance with his brain— Hunk was standing with his eyes raised to the ceiling, hands pressed together in front of his mouth like he was praying— Pidge said, "You are the living embodiment of tact, Lance."

"Thanks for the salt Pidge, makes the shoe leather taste much better."

Shiro laughed. “It’s okay, really.”

Huh. Maybe Lance could hold off on suicide by Keith after all.

"Seriously though," Pidge added, glancing at Shiro, "You're just going to sit and listen to us?"

Shiro’s smile turned wry, and he shrugged. The movement made the empty part of his sleeve sway.

Keith hesitated, unhappy, "Shiro—"

"It's fine," Shiro interrupted. He nudged Keith in the direction of the drum set, pulling out a chair for himself at the edge of the room, "Do your thing. Just pretend I'm not here."

Lance caught a glimpse of Keith as he walked past . . . .

"Hey Shiro" Lance said suddenly, "Can you sing?"

Shiro paused with his hand on the back of the chair, taken by surprise, "What?"

"Pidge has been working on some stuff with vocals," Lance nodded at her, "Right Pidge?"

"Oh yeah!" Pidge dove for her backpack, pulling out a pile of sheet music, "It started out as an exercise for my music composition class, but it turned out to be really fun, so I kept going."

Shiro blinked at the music she shoved into his hands, "Fall Out Boy?"

"Arranged for jazz band." Pidge agreed, "Now come on, get over here so we can hear you."

"I'm not really a singer," Shiro protested, pulling his chair over slowly.

"Can you carry a tune in a bucket?" Lance asked, arranging his music on his stand.

"Yes?"

"Then you can sing. It's fine man, it's jazz," Lance flashed him a smile, then turned to the rest of the group, "Let's get started. Pidge, Hunk, you all tuned up?"

"Of course." Pidge sniffed at him, picking up her clarinet and playing a short C major. Hunk plucked his strings a couple more times, then gave Lance a thumbs up.

"Keith, we've actually got someone singing with us today. Try not to drown us out the way you usually do."

Keith rolled his eyes, "Right back at ya, buddy."

Lance sneered elegantly at him, then turned to Shiro, "If you get lost, just keep an eye on Hunk, he’ll cue you in. And remember, if you mess up, blame Pidge."

"Hey!" Pidge squawked.

"I can read this sheet music woman! When exactly am I supposed to breath?"

"You talk that long without breathing all the time, you'll be fine."

"Ha. Ha. Everyone all set?" Lance glanced around. Pidge was rolling her eyes at him, Hunk was snickering, Shiro was trying to hide a bemused smile, and Keith kept stealing glances at Shiro.

Lance had never seen that expression on Keith's face before.

"We're ready," Lance decided, "On my count. A-five six seven eight!"

* * *

They had been good before. But after Shiro joined, something locked into place, and now they were on their way to becoming _great_.

Shiro had a beautiful, strong tenor, and was surprisingly good at singing the blues for someone who had never studied jazz before. (Which was Not To Be Commented On.)

It took them a while to convince him to come to practice. He kept trying to bow out, saying that he didn’t want to disrupt their practice, or that he wasn’t a good enough singer, or that he was too old, they couldn’t possibly want him around—

(Pidge rolled her eyes, “Dude, just shut up and sing with us.”

“It’s a little hard to do both.” Shiro said drily.)

But once they’d finally managed to convince him that they didn’t care, he was took to jazz like he’d been waiting for a way to let music back into his life after . . . after. He started taking singing lessons, he audited Lance and Hunk’s music history class, he started making requests and suggestions, looking for ways for all of them to improve—

Lance felt something warm and soft grow in his chest when Shiro launched into an impromptu lecture on the historical significance of Harlem jazz clubs, eyes no longer tired but shining with enthusiasm. He glanced at Keith, who was watching Shiro with the same warm, soft expression as Lance, and the two of them shared a smile.

Shiro took over as music director, with Lance’s blessing. They had a little ceremony to transfer the tuner and everything. It was just as well, really. Shiro was much better at keeping them all in line, and with him in charge Lance could goof off with his friends instead of pretending to be responsible.

Then Pidge set up a Youtube channel for them, they recorded a couple songs and put them up and . . . suddenly they were kinda sorta famous? People recognized them when they walked around campus now, and usually complemented them on their videos and asked when were they going to put up the next one. Miss Allura and Professor Coran helped them record their first album, carefully making no mention of the fact that this was Shiro’s second time doing this. After finals were over and school let out for the summer, they even got a couple gigs! Nothing too big, just a couple coffee shops in and around the tristate area and one wedding. But it was still enough to justify renting a van to take the Voltron band to their various locations.

They turned it into a proper road trip. Mr. and Mrs. Holt drove and chose various places for them to stop and have fun, museums and parks and farmers markets. Shiro divided his attention between helping them navigate and keeping peace in the back seat, which became essential when they were forbidden from practicing in the car.

It was different, more exciting and more stressful than anything Lance had ever done before, and he was sincerely grateful that Shiro was there to talk them down from their pre-concert jitters. Going out there, being on a stage and seeing a whole crowd of people watching . . . .

Lance never imagined that him and Hunk jamming out in a classroom together would lead to this.

Then it was over. They went their separate ways for the rest of the summer, promising to meet up when school started.

Now here they were again, after the first day of classes, Hunk, Lance and Pidge with instruments in hand, and Keith twirling his drumsticks like cheerleading batons, heading for the auditorium where they’d agreed to meet. None of them had heard from Shiro in the past month, but Keith promised he’d be there for practice in a couple hours. In the meantime they had an after-class jam session to get to, which was _tradition_ dammit, and they weren’t going to let things like an impending concert and a growing case of fame get in the way.

Only it seemed like some one was already there. A slow melody plinked out from the baby grand on stage, and Lance craned his head to see who was playing . . . .

That was _Shiro_.

In the wings, Lance threw out a hand to stop the others, motioning for silence. Hunk clapped a hand over his mouth and Keith grabbed onto Lance’s shirt. Pidge rolled her eyes at them, but stayed quiet.

Shiro was frowning in concentration as he picked out the notes, his eyes as tired as they had been the first time he’d come to practice with them.

Lance couldn’t help but remember the two albums on his computer, played countless times. The piano on them had sung, the notes flowing like water, smooth and easy . . . .

This wasn’t that.

Stiff and clumsy, from lack of practice and the use of his non-dominant hand, the music bare without a second hand to play harmony, but he was still _playing_ , and they would never ask for more than that—

One of Keith’s drumsticks dropped, clattering against the ground. Shiro’s gaze flew up, eyes widening when he saw them in the wings.

Lance tried for a grin as Hunk waved sheepishly behind him.

Shiro flushed and looked away, his hand falling from the keys.

No, dammit, that wasn’t— they hadn’t meant—

Lance, Hunk and Keith slunk on stage, setting up and tuning their instruments guiltily.

Pidge just stood there with her hands in her pockets, head tilted like a bird, “Why’d you stop?”

“We’ve got a lot of work to do before our first concert,” Shiro didn’t look up, his remaining hand curled loosely in his lap, “If you’re all here we should start practice.”

“You were already practicing though.” Pidge pointed out, frowning slightly.

Shiro didn’t reply.

Pidge slid onto the bench next to Shiro, picking up his hand and placing it on the keys when he didn’t move. “You take the top, I’ll take the bottom.” She told him, and started to play.

Hunk joined in next, drawing long, slow, easy notes from his bass. Then Keith, with a soft, rolling beat on the cymbals. Lance took the descant, playing as quietly as he could.

Then Shiro finally beginning to play again, the counterpoint to Pidge’s harmony, and all of them shifted to match.

They played their way through the opening one more time. Shiro was smiling now, as music echoed throughout the hall.

* * *

_"Someday_

_Look back_

_On a_

_Young day_

_We shared_

_We learned_

_We had_

_We lost_

_Because_

_You know_

_Tomorrow had another plan_

_Because_

_We lose_

_The future is all we have left_

_We have someday_

_Surely someday_

_Surely someday"_


End file.
